98
For this, and not for Nature’s fault, be sure Virgil nor Homer rise to strike the lyre; nor shall rise ever, an this mode endure, pious Aeneas or Achilles dire. But—worst of all—it maketh man so dour, austere, rough, frigid to poetic fire; so rude, so heedless to be known or know, few heed the want and many will it so.